The black man with the gold tooth
and the silver pocket watch he found
in a dumpster dive in Midtown Manhattan
smiles and exclaims, “Lordy, Lordy!
It’s a time for a change, ain’t it?
The Age of Aquarius—shit, that’s what time it is!”
In Philly, the hobo smells of Chanel and Charlie,
free spritzes from the glass altar at Bloomie’s.
He’s the dandy in red and blue silk scarves
shoplifted from the caravan cakewalk
through Central City where he fashions himself
King Candy, the magisterial leader of the mooks.
On the South Side of Chicago, Lou takes a hit
from the bong that blesses the sliding slum
with incense that vagabonds tending their flocks
inhale deep into browning bellows
before exhaling the plume to an unnamed god.
The spire and mooring mast, pulsing starbright
atop the Empire State Building, leads the trio
to Central Park, the Big Apple moldy with Eve.
Heavy with wine, they slumber in Claremont Arch
before taking the abandoned babe to the firehouse
for a five-alarm life with foster dudes.
It’s time to leave, to slip the long invisible leash
before Herod’s cops roust the teachers three.
They board the dog, the El, the boxcar rolling free.
It’s done and done. Go down, Moses and wake up Job.
There’s something happening here, something new—
for what it’s worth—on the goddamn dizzy globe.
~William Hammett
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